Old Secrets that Burn
by Yanagi Uxinta
Summary: The Anchor is a key, one that closes. One that opens. There are those who have sought release for aeons, who reach out through the Fade.


There are whispers. Whispers, just at the edge of hearing. Behind her, but she can't turn. Her skin prickles, the hairs on the back of her neck reaching out, towards something _right behind her-_

A hand closes around her elbow. She can't even jump in shock. Another hand rests on her waist, heat burning through the simple nightgown. Not one of hers, something different. Elvhen in design, but richer than anything the People might own. Soft, delicate muslin and silk. It only makes the warmth spread further, faster, sinking in deeper. The hand on her arm grazes down to her wrist, and the Anchor crackles to life.

Her heart stills in her chest. Could it- no, no it wasn't. These hands, as broad as his, have no calluses from staff work, the edges of the nails leave white lines in their wake on her skin. He isn't back.

_Then who-_

A thumb traces the heel of her hand, slides down into her palm. She can look down, can see the long fingers and pale skin, far paler than any sun-sheltered noble she'd seen. This was the colour of skin starved of light, bleached and near-translucent with dark veins. Still she can't turn. His thumb glides around the edges of the Anchor. Dread buries itself in her chest, early enough for a warning, to know what would-

He drives his thumb deep into the scar of the Anchor, and pain burrows deep, searing from her palm up to her chest, to her frantically beating heart. She arches onto her toes, tries to yank her arm away, but his grip is solid, immovable. Sound locks in her throat, the pressure rooting her to the spot burying the scream. Her heart seizes, and she can't even claw at him in her panic-

Release. Relief. Her heart steadies as she slumps, trembling. His arm wraps around her middle, holding her up, holding her back against him as his hand circles her wrist again, safe. For now.

'So the wolf has the right of it.' His breath brushes the narrow tip of her ear, ruffles her hair. Tall. Taller than him. The voice is soft, unused. Papery, like the pages of the old tomes in the disused library in the basement. 'The key cannot be removed without killing the wielder. And it must be someone from outside to use it.'

She tries to find her feet, to take her own weight, but his hand tightens around her waist enough to hurt, enough for the long nails to dig through soft fabric and sting and stain it with spots of blood.

'Ah-ah.' It's the scolding of a disobedient child. 'Stay still, _shemlen_.'

Elvhen then. _Old_ elvhen, like the Sentinals. Only they would call one of the People 'shemlen'. And to come across them in a dream-

And it _is_ a dream. She can feel it now, can see the faded colours that mark the Fade. Can feel that her captor isn't as solid as she is, not quite as substantial now that she _knows_. A shadow of a person, a reflection projected through the Fade. From... where?

She stands, and he cannot stop her. Can only snarl – _but still she cannot turn_.

The hands she so easily escaped return, one tight and cruel at the roots of her hair, the other closing around her throat, her own blood leaving little tracks against her skin from his nails. 'Do not play at this game, _da'len_. You will lose.' The nail of his thumb digs in, behind her airway, over her jugular.

She clenches her jaw, mixed defiance and fear. 'Who are you?' Her voice is as soft as his from lack of breath.

His hand leaves her throat, a single finger tracing patterns on her chin. 'You bore my mark once.' Quick, light lines, following a pattern once etched deep into her skin. 'Now you wear hers, deeper than mine ever went.' She remembers the thin knife used to make them, fine as a cat's claw. 'No ink in your skin, but I feel it. Deeper than blood, deeper than magic.' Barbed lines that curve up her cheeks, fading out to dashed dots, elongated arrows down her nose, arc upwards on her forehead. 'You are bound to her, even more than those pets at her temple. Millenia of protecting, of waiting, gone in hours. All that knowledge, all those voices... all burned into you.'

Even with his hand a loose shackle around her throat, it's hard to breathe. It isn't possible. It _shouldn't_ be possible, but-

'But you have already met my mother. Your people think her locked away, the Sentinels think her dead. Yet you have met her wisp, have seen the flesh she wears. If she is free, why not me?' His smile grazes the shell of her ear. 'Freedom is a tricky thing, _da'len_. Much like you, we can only reach out in dreams, and only to those capable of hearing us.'

The hairs lift on her arms. It isn't just his words, isn't the way he plucks her fear and questions from her mind and echoes it back to her. It's cold, yet they haven't moved. There is nothing here, just mist stretching away into darkness, and them.

Him. The god of secrets. Dirthamen.

'Not as sharp as I would have liked,' and this time his teeth catch on her ear, taste blood. 'But all that matters is you have the key.' The Anchor cracks and burns green as he lifts her hand out before them. 'All we need now is the door.'

Something approaches out of the mist. Or... no. _They_ approach _it_, all without moving. An eluvian, its surface shifting and gleaming.

There are figures behind the glass.

_We stand in the Fade. To direct the eluvian here would require immense power._

Immense power... the power of the Anchor?

She can see them clearly now, seven figures arrayed behind the glass. Wild, hollow-eyed-

Tainted. The dark veins of Dirthamen's hand were not a trick of the Fade. The black veins of blighted creatures mar their faces, red clouds their eyes. Dirthamen himself at the front of the crowd, not holding her there, but glassy-eyed, distant. His Shadow lingers behind him, opposite to his twin in every way. The corruption gleams red beneath his dark skin, always a reminder of how far they have all fallen.

The gods survive in corruption.

She recoils, tries to pull her hand away. She won't, she _can't_ release these tainted, blighted monsters. That is all that's left of them – Andruil painted with blood and red lyrium, Sylaise a burned, blistered grinning madwoman. Hulking, distant shapes gather behind them – June's crafts, Ghilan'nain's creatures. An army of blight and madness, all in a blackened throne room-

_I once breached the Fade in the name of another... I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers._

The seat of the gods already tainted... because the taint had reached it long before the magisters ever did.

They are the cause of the Blight. They couldn't follow the magisters out, but they could infect them with the corruption. Their vengeance on the world too weak to free them.

The chill returns, almost... a breeze?

Something growls behind them.

Dirthamen tenses, his mouth thinning into a stark line in his gaunt face. 'Our jailor approaches.'

He lets her hand drop, makes her turn with him, keeping her between his shade and the wolf.

He is bigger than the harts in her stable, bigger than a great bear. Six red eyes, gleaming white teeth, black lips peeled back from pink gums. His head is lowered to their level, his dark hackles raised.

'Tell me, _harellan_, how will you protect her this time? Leave her again, and we go free. Stay by her side, and let the world crumble.'

She doesn't understand – doesn't _want_ to understand, but the truth is right there, pushing forward, and she doesn't want to look-

The wolf looks her in the eye, snarl fading, and she knows that steady stare. Knows the depths of those eyes, red as they are. Knows that pain she could never reach before.

'How is it Fen'harel, to have all your lies, all your secrets laid bare?' She can feel Dirthamen's smile again, against the crust of blood dried along the length of her ear. Fen'harel bares his teeth again, and takes one step forward. His paws are as large as the eluvian behind them.

She can hear whispers again. Or, not whispers. Something far away-

Dirthamen's hand closes around her throat, fingers poised on their tips, nails ready to drive through her neck. 'Clever. But what if I'm not interested in playing? What if I take her from you, right now? I cannot use the Anchor either way, with you her watchdog or her dead. I might as well get some enjoyment out of it.' She can feel blood welling up, five points, five little rivers. It's getting louder, getting colder...

She doesn't see the wolf move. Black fills her vision, black and vivid pink and red of tongue and throat. Dirthamen screams in her ear and rips himself away, shoving her forward into soft fur and hard muscle.

Free to move for the first time, she turns and sees blood, raw muscle and bone where once a hand was. Bloody skin flaps uselessly at the end of the limb, an empty glove turned inside out.

Fen'harel turns, large enough for her to look him in the eye while still pressed against the fur of his haunch. His eyes glint and shift, just for a moment, to blue. Then a voice sounds, just two words.

'_Wake up.'_

Hands come out of the fur to clasp her shoulders, and she thrashes in panic. 'Inquisitor, _wake up_!'

Cold mountain air sears her lungs and she lunges awake, scrabbling at the hands still gripping her, but backing into the chest they belong to, away from the eluvian that's still there-

In the storage room. In Skyhold. The hands at her shoulders are heavy, callused, scarred. The eluvian is dormant. The fur a cloak.

She turns and Cullen lets her, his heavy cape thrown haphazardly over his nightshirt and hair sticking up in little waves and curls from sleep. His eyes land on her neck, then her ear, and he raises a hand in concern. 'Are- Inquisitor, you're bleeding. What...'

She shakes her head, realises the rest of her is shaking, and she can't stop. He drapes his cloak over her and leads her back inside, away from the breeze rustling the leaves in the garden. When they turn towards her room she balks, takes them instead into Josie's office and the warm fire. He leaves her there with a scavenged glass of brandy to fetch the others.

She wraps the quiet around her to make herself feel safer. The brandy warms her through when the fire couldn't. It steadies her, helps her focus. Helps her think. Morrigan's eluvian – the Inquisition's now that the arcane advisor has left – usually links to the Crossroads. The only other time it has led elsewhere, as opposed to it being the destination, is when Kieran forced it to the Fade. Immense power was required... either Mythal had opened it for him, or the boy himself had used the power drawn from him by his grandmother. So it stood to reason that enough power could link the eluvian to somewhere else – somewhere beyond the Fade. Or deep _inside_ the Fade – the Black City. And she has that power.

Which means the gods won't stop until she releases them. Every time she goes to sleep, they are going to creep in, steering her around Skyhold towards that damn mirror. They could get rid of it – transport it out of Skyhold to one of their other fortresses. But that might take time, and with Dirthamen, the _god of secrets_ watching, it might not help. She doesn't know the extent of his influence outside his prison, but if he can reach out in dreams he might find a way to stop them. Might find some_one_ to stop them. He has the material to blackmail everyone alive. Any plan she could come up with, he might know about. Maybe Dorian and Vivienne could help – some kind of magical defence while she slept.

Or maybe...

No. Don't consider it. He left, and if what Dirthamen said is true, he can't come back. You saw him in the Fade, let that be enough.

You saw _Fen'Harel_ in the Fade. Not him. Not Solas.

Is there a difference?

She isn't sure she wants an answer.

The door opens behind her. Probably Varric, his room is closest. She turns to greet him and freezes.

Solas hasn't quite stepped into the room, pausing half-shielded by the door. There are shadows under his eyes, a gauntness to his face that wasn't there three months ago. 'Inquisitor,' he says softly.

She stares. What could she _say_? You're a god? You're a wolf? You took away our gods? The world might have ended if you hadn't?

Instead she settles for something simple. 'What happened?'

He takes that as an invitation to enter, quietly closing the door behind him. He doesn't bother bringing the other chair over, sitting on the chest beside the fire instead. 'They are disgruntled, as they always are. It is not the first attempt of theirs I have foiled, nor the most complex. Unfortunately, all they have is time. Time to plan, to find new and creative ways to test the limits of their confinement. They will be persistent in this one until I have proven it is impossible.' He studies the floor as he speaks rather than meet her eyes.

'Is it?'

That draws his attention. He watches her for a moment, taking in the hair stuck to her bloody ear and the marks at her throat. The threats of a Dreamer not fully suppressed. 'I will make it so,' he promises fervently, and she wants to believe it.

'But if you stay... what Dirthamen said...' He cannot stay, so how can he make that promise?

He gives her a wan smile. 'The world survived without me for over a thousand years while I slept. True, it did not develop the way I had imagined, the way I wanted, but it survived. It will do so again until Dirthamen remembers his place.'

There is something of the wolf in that and she shivers, eyes dropping to the jawbone resting against his chest. There all the time for her, for the world to see, yet the world was blind.

The silence stretches, and they both break it at the same time.

'I am sorry-'

'Are you alri-'

They stop, self conscious, cautious.

'Please, go on,' he says, bowing his head again. She doesn't know what to make of this man, so deferential and careful yet powerful, unyielding. She thinks she wants the chance to learn.

'Are you alright? You... you don't look well, Solas. Or-' she stops, huffs, throws up one hand while the other keeps the cloak from slipping off her shoulders.

There is a faint smile lingering on his face. 'I have become used to Solas. You can use whichever name you wish, it doesn't truly matter. As for how I feel...' he trails off, lips parted as he looks for the words he needs. 'I am... tired, but not in the usual sense. Drained might be a better description. It has been a long time since I walked as myself, even in dreams. I had forgotten how difficult it was... how addicting.' He gives her a swift glance, a wry smile. 'Power corrupts, as we discussed, and my true form is powerful indeed. Once I would get lose in the wolf for centuries, for my own entertainment. For the sheer thrill. I cannot afford such indulgences now. Not after everything that has happened.'

She nods, staring into the fire as she tries to think. There is no room for denial now, no chance she had misunderstood. Yet thoughts won't form properly, just keep dancing outside her grasp, vague concepts and nothing more. Unable to focus, she returns to memory instead and takes a breath, holding onto that. 'You wanted to say something too?'

'Yes.' He pauses, head bowed, and she sees his fingers tighten on his knees. 'I wanted to apologise. For everything. I was selfish in letting you close; I was a coward in pushing you away. I wanted to tell you, in the grotto. Tell you who I was, _what_ I was. But I couldn't, at that last second I couldn't. I will never regret what we had,' he says, lifting his head, meeting her eyes squarely, 'but I regret I hurt you in letting it happen. You did not deserve it.'

She lifts her chin, tightens her jaw. 'Don't you think I should decide that?'

He frowns, confused more than angry. 'But-'

'No.' She stands, crosses to him with purposeful strides, leaving the cloak behind in the chair. She takes his hands firmly, not letting him pull away this time. For once, she will take control of what they have. 'You are the most intelligent man I have ever met, but don't flatter yourself in thinking you are so above the rest of us. If you had told me, had _trusted_ me to understand you and believe you, this wouldn't have happened. We could have worked together to preserve the orb during the battle. You could have stayed. And maybe Dirthamen wouldn't have dared approach me with you there.' She pauses, studies him to make sure he is listening. He is, rapt. 'I am mortal, Solas. That does not make me dumb or incapable of understanding. So if you are going to stay-' Her voice cracks, and she stops to steady it. He squeezes her fingers, encouraging. She plunges onwards, hopeful. 'If you are going to stay, for however long it is, you need to tell us all the truth. Tell us everything, and we mere mortals might just surprise you.'

He stares at her, something like wonder and disbelief on his face. 'You would have it be that easy?'

She laughs. She can't help it. 'It _is_ that easy. We might not solve it, but we could help. You don't have to do everything alone, you fool.'

She doesn't realise she's just called a god a fool to his face until he is on his feet, his arms around her, her face buried in his shoulder. She finds she doesn't care, even when the door opens and the others arrive. All that matters is that he is here, he will stay, and they can try. That's all she asks.


End file.
